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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28019385">Black Box</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supersophieuh/pseuds/Supersophieuh'>Supersophieuh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amnesia, Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, No Spoilers, Pre-Slash, Sam is done with their bullshit, Temporary Amnesia, but comfort too, djinn, he doesn't even actually hides it, just so you know I started writing this before s15e20 landed, so if you want to forget it you should be alright;), so so done</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:49:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,808</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28019385</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supersophieuh/pseuds/Supersophieuh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Poisoned by a Djinn, Dean ends up trapped in a dark cell, with no memory left of who he is or how he ended up there.<br/>Hopefully, he is not alone!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Inside</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here is what was supposed to be a small one-shot to get me out of writer block...end ended up as a 5000-ish words fic.<br/>Hope you'll like it anyway :)</p><p>I am not exactly sure when this is supposed to happen, but obviously after s4 and before s15.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He awakes.</p><p>Though he is not sure he had been sleeping.</p><p>And it has nothing to do with the slow, gradual process of surfacing.</p><p>It feels more like a door just opened, like some strange and unexpected realisation newly reached his mind: he is now conscious.</p><p>The second thing he becomes aware of is the plain, pitch black darkness surrounding him. He blinks once, twice, but his eyes are indeed open.</p><p>He is lying on his back, on a cold and hard surface – definitely not a mattress –, with a stiffened body and a numb brain, apparently refusing to provide him with an explanation regarding his current situation.</p><p>So he decides to put it at work.</p><p>He gathers his thoughts, his brows furrowing in the process, and tries to find a way to access his memory. A crack. A door. A key.</p><p>It doesn’t work well.</p><p>As it comes, he has no idea where he is, no idea where he was, and no idea how he ended up in there.</p><p>‘<em>What is the last thing you remember?</em>’ he asks himself. It seems like a good starting point. It is the kind of thing the doctors would say in one of those medical drama to their tragically amnesic new patient.</p><p>Could he be an amnesic?</p><p>His hand reaches instinctively for the top of his head, tousling the hair in search of any sign of pain or concussion. There is none.</p><p>Shifting to a sitting position, he goes on with his inspection, checking on his face, neck, his torso and his limps, only to find them completely unhurt and apparently healthy. He then raises his hands once more, stopping them in the air, inches away from his eyes. He cannot even distinguish a finger.</p><p><em>He cannot even remember what his fingers are supposed to look like</em>.</p><p>His stomach drops at the thought. Surely this is very wrong.</p><p>He stumbles back into himself, furiously rummaging through the depths of his brain, more and more frustrated as he can’t come out with a face, a trait, a <em>name</em> he could associate with himself.</p><p>“Fuck,” he curses, and the tone of his voice at least sounds familiar.</p><p>His breathing has dangerously increased and he forces himself to calm down, counting the seconds as he inhales and then exhales deeply. It shouldn’t make a difference, but closing his eyes helps.</p><p>His brain isn’t of any use right now, so he’ll have to rely on his body.</p><p>His body-searches himself once again, this time looking for any particularity, any tiny clue hiding in his clothes – he <em>does</em> wear clothes – that could give out information about his slipping identity.</p><p>He is wearing a shirt, a leather jacket, and a pair worn out jeans, each with pockets. Inside he finds a wallet, an alarming number of cards – none of which he can identify obviously–, and even a set of keys that tingle loudly in his hands. But no phone, no flashlight, and, as his mind very specifically notices, no weapon.</p><p>A strangely shaped necklace also hangs around his neck, and, for a moment, its contact nearly summons an image at the edge of his perception, only to disappear before he has a real chance to grasp its outline.</p><p>His fingers snap shut around the pendant and he swallows another curse. Could it be that his memories are lost forever? It is his heart this time that sinks at the thought.</p><p>But no, he can’t let himself be brought down. Not yet!</p><p>If anything, he tries to find some comfort in his frustration; he can’t have forgotten everything since he can still remember how much it sucks to have it forgotten. And if he has no idea what has taken his memories away from him, he also has no idea what could put them back in!</p><p>He decides to put the matter aside for the moment – brooding on those thoughts to no end is unlikely to lead him anywhere anyway – to start a task that’s actually within his reach: the exploration of his inscrutable and curious surroundings.</p><p>He starts on all four, cautiously testing the floor in front of him before allowing himself forward. The darkness could very well hide the edge of a bottomless pit stuffed with pointy stakes and he has no intention of getting impaled! Still he feels nothing save the cold, perfectly smooth material making up the ground, until he reached and equally cold and smooth wall panel.</p><p>The wall connects with another, connecting with another, connecting with yet another one, and, if his spatial perception hasn’t been totally fucked up, he is standing in the middle of a cube.</p><p>A big, dark, empty cube. Without any way out.</p><p>At first, he thinks he missed it, and he runs his fingers once again on the polished surfaces, not omitting a single inch in his investigation. But no, there isn’t the slightest gap indicating the location of a door or any sort of secret trap, and not a single hollow-sounding spot.</p><p>Which doesn’t make sense, for, one way or another, he had to get in there!</p><p><em>Except if</em>…</p><p>He raises his head towards the concealed ceiling. Could he have been dropped from above?</p><p>Removing his jacket, he uses it to try and estimate the height of the room. One sleeve in a hand, he waves it in the air but, even as he jumps, the fabric never collides with anything solid. How come such a fall didn’t cover him in bruises?</p><p>“Hey,” he shouts and, judging from the echo, there is indeed a ceiling. “Anyone there?”</p><p>He isn’t surprised he doesn’t get an answer. He doesn’t actually know for how long he’s been there but he hasn’t heard a single sound since he rose to consciousness.</p><p>Maybe he is dead?</p><p>Maybe he is in hell and all this cube experience is what his personal forever will look like?</p><p>But no, as soon as it crosses his mind the idea stops making sense. Not that he’d end up in hell – that he doesn’t find particularly hard to believe. But he isn’t dead. It doesn’t feel like this.</p><p>If he were to have a guest, he’d say this place looks like a cell. So maybe he is a prisoner?</p><p><em>No</em>, he corrects himself, <em>surely he is a prisoner</em>. But prisoner to whom? – Or, seeps a thought that makes his entire body shiver, prisoner to what? – And what did he do to end up here? This, for sure, doesn’t look like your average prison…</p><p>“Hey, you!” he tries again, louder. At least the screaming is an outlet for his frustration. “Show yourselves, you bastards! What is it you want from me?!”</p><p>He is expecting another silence when a muffled sound seems to answer him.</p><p>“Is anyone there?” There’s a touch of hope in his voice he can’t erase. He is not even sure he truly heard anything. “Answer me!! Are you there?!”</p><p>The sound recurs, and this time he locates its origin. It doesn’t come from above but from his right, possibly from another cell. He runs to the wall, arms stretched in front of him to avoid smashing his nose.</p><p>“Are you there?” he repeats, <em>screams</em> against the panel “Is there anyone out there?”</p><p>“Hello,” comes the reply, understandable this time. The voice is deep, gruffy, and it sends a wave of relief washing over his frame.</p><p>“Hi, hello! I’m… I’m there!! Can you hear me?” A stupid question. They said ‘Hello’, of course they can hear him. “Who are you? Do you know where we are?”</p><p>“No. I am sorry.”</p><p>“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s ok.” His words get out in a blur, terrified at the idea of losing contact. He doesn’t want his hurried tone to shy that other person away. “There’s no reason to apology! I don’t remember anything either!"</p><p>There he his, already letting slip information to some random guy he barely met! His memory loss probably isn't the kind of thing he should broadcast. It makes him vulnerable, in a situation where he can’t tell opponents from allies. One could argue that, having nothing left to remember, it would be pointless for an enemy to try and interrogate him. Except if said enemy’s goal was precisely to check on the success of the deletion process….</p><p>The voice seems lost, thought, and he really wants to trust it. It could be a trap. But his guts tell him it’s not. And what has he got left right now, if not his instinct?</p><p>“Listen,” he starts again, “how does it looks like, around you? What is the last thing you remember before this place?”</p><p>“It is dark. Everywhere. I am inside of a squared black room and I couldn’t find an entrance.” A pause, probably spent on reflection, before the voice continues. “…and I am unable to remember anything else.”</p><p>“Yeah, same for me!” he says with an uncalled eagerness. It shouldn’t make him happy that another person got stuck to share his misery – and, in truth, it doesn’t. Simply, the realisation he doesn’t have to go through this alone, that there’s another soul right there with him tints the fatality with hope. “Do you have an idea for how long you’ve been awake?”</p><p>“No, I don’t know. It seems I can’t evaluate time here.”</p><p>The other guy must have gotten closer to the wall, because they can now communicate without needing to speak up. He wonders how thick those walls really are…</p><p>“And have you made contact with anyone else? Anyone but me I mean…”</p><p>“I haven’t, but…” Another pause. Why did this guy always had to make pauses?! How frustrating it is not to see your interlocutor’s face! “There are three other walls that I haven’t checked. We should probably go and try our luck.”</p><p>They got a point there. For all his reluctance to getting away from his new-found companion, it would be a mistake not to explore such an option. If they were other people around, he wanted to know.</p><p>“I think you’re right. Let’s meet here in… well when it’s done, ok?”</p><p>Thus, he walks around the room, literally sticking his mouth, then his ear, to the other three panels, but no matter how loud his screams, he never gets anything in return. This is both a disappointment and a relief.</p><p>He goes to report his lack of findings, a bit alarmed when he doesn’t get an immediate answer. Thankfully, it is only a matter of seconds before the voice resounds again, to relate a similar tale.</p><p>“So, I guess it’s only you and me then, right?”</p><p>Which is strange. Are they the only two inmates in this complex? Is this the only sound permeable wall? Were they <em>supposed</em> to meet? Could those exchanges be <em>dangerous</em>?</p><p>
  <em>Do they know each other?</em>
</p><p>“You wouldn’t remember your name, would you?” He is getting tired of referring to the other guy as ‘the other guy’.</p><p>“Have a guess?”</p><p>“Ok then, maybe we should start using aliases to communicate with each other. You know, to make it easier… How would you like to be called?”</p><p>“… Steve,” comes the answer after a good few seconds. That is infuriating.</p><p>“<em>’Steve’</em>, honestly? It took you this whole time to come up with such a name? Why hello Steve, you can call me Jason!”</p><p>“I won’t. It doesn’t suit you.”</p><p>“Excuse me?” He almost chokes out.  He can’t decide whether he’s more amused or surprised. “Do you have a better suggestion?”</p><p>The amount of time spent on reflexion shows how much ‘Steve’ is involved in the matter.</p><p>“Matt.”</p><p>“Oh. So ‘Matt’ is better than Jason, uh?”</p><p>“It’s shorter. It suits you better.”</p><p>A hearty laughter straight out escapes his lips this time. And it feels <em>good</em>.</p><p>“Alright, ‘Matt’ it is then! So, <em>Steve</em>, any idea on what to do next?”</p><p>“I am not sure. I was thinking… I cannot access my memories but I can feel they’re still there, underneath. So, if I concentrate enough, maybe I’ll be able to reach them?”</p><p>“Well good luck with that!”</p><p>He said it with irony and he half regrets it. He may see it as a hopeless task, it doesn’t mean he should deter the other from trying – none of them qualify as an expert anyway. Besides, all blasé as he acts, he can’t help but diving back inside his mind as well…</p><p>…which turns out as disappointing as the first time. The more he searches, the less he finds, and he might as well be counting on a ladder to reach for the moon.</p><p>Grunting, he forgets the idea and sets his thoughts into another track; it is about time to come up with a plan to get out of there!</p><p>First, he needs to identify the exact spot of the cube’s entrance, which should also be the easiest way out. Assuming it is located on the ceiling, it promises some complications, yet it shouldn’t be too long before he knows where he stands.</p><p>As he sees it, there are only two options: either their captors plan to let them die – but then, you don’t bother erasing someone’s memory to just throw them in a pit and disregard them completely –, either they intend to use them for <em>something</em>, and therefore, they need to keep them alive. That means, at the very last, providing them with food and water</p><p>Could he manage to bring one of them down there? With a projectile maybe, or by playing dead? That wouldn’t fail to make them suspicious...</p><p>Could he convince them to talk and give out any piece of information that could prove helpful? Knowing their motives would be of great use in attempting to negotiate – knowing their motives would be of great use to <em>him</em>, <em>personally</em>, in starting to find <em>some</em> sense in this mess!</p><p>What use could anyone have of two amnesic dudes anyway?</p><p>Could there be someone out there looking for them?</p><p>That was an entire concept, really. With those missing memories came a life, a past, a family maybe. People to miss and people who’d miss them. Suddenly, the question is back, more pressing than before.</p><p>
  <em>Do they know each other?</em>
</p><p>He doesn’t ask it though. ‘Steve’ is currently busy concentrating, meditating, or trying to dive in a state of self-induced hypnosis and he doesn’t want to disturb him. Also, he doesn’t want to hear ‘I don’t know’ in return. </p><p>He just sits there, with his back against the wall, trying to plan an escape he doesn’t have enough elements to think through. The lack of certitude opens a horizon of possibilities he has the time to explore up to boredom, from the ways to turn his clothes into weapons to the colourful names he could reserve for their captors.</p><p>***</p><p>He drifts in and out of him mind, never actually falling asleep, for what seems like hours. Days if he were asked.</p><p>Then it strikes him. Not the fact that no one has deemed necessary to provide them with supplies, but the fact that he doesn’t feel the slightest discomfort.</p><p>He’s been there for what seems like an eternity, yet he isn’t hungry, he isn’t thirsty… He doesn’t even feel the need to pee!</p><p>“Hey, Steve,” he calls, believing this justifies an interruption, “you still there?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“How is your memory doing?”</p><p>“How do you think it is doing?”</p><p>He bites back a huff<em>. That bad, uh? </em>He doesn’t dwell on the subject.</p><p>“Steve, listen, are you hungry?”</p><p>“Am I…<em>what</em>?”</p><p>“Hungry. Or thirsty?” He did remember what hungry was, right? “Do you wish to eat some food?”</p><p>“I… No, I don’t.”</p><p>“Me neither. I don’t think this is normal. We’ve been in there for way too long now. We should have… I don’t know. Cravings?”</p><p>“I suppose you are right,” Steve concedes, although he doesn’t seems entirely convinced, “except…’</p><p>“Except what?” he presses. He isn’t in the mood for one of his cellmate impromptu pauses.</p><p>“The need for food, for drinks; those are bodily functions. I have been thinking… If our bodies do not obey the normal rules while we are here, then maybe our bodies are not here at all. This would explain how we entered our cells.”</p><p>It sounds crazy, but at the same time strangely reasonable. In fact, he is surprised at how fast he accepts this as a real possibility. If it were the case, could his subconscious know?</p><p>“I guess it <em>would</em> explain how I didn’t break my neck falling from that damn trapdoor!” The fall should have been way too hard for his body to remain unscathed.</p><p>“What trapdoor?”</p><p>“The one on the ceiling, the one…” the one whose existence he had only but assumed.</p><p>“There is no trapdoor. I checked. This room is perfectly hermetic. The air shouldn’t even be renewed.”</p><p>Briefly, he wonders how his companion had effectively managed to “check” the ceiling, but too many thoughts are rushing in at the moment, and this clearly isn’t his priority.</p><p>“You think we just appeared in this place?”</p><p>“I think this place was built around us, locking us in our own minds and forbidding access to the outside world or to our memories of it.”</p><p>“But I can feel the walls. I can feel my body. I can hear you…”</p><p>“Brains interpret perceptions and we experience what we expect to feel. I don’t think we are supposed to unravel this trick.”</p><p>Well, Steve has for sure spent some time thinking it through, that he cannot deny!</p><p>“Are you saying we are…trapped in a dream?” There’s something in the situation somewhat reminiscent of the state. The absence of things he can remember that doesn’t challenge the things he knows. Consequences without causes; the kind of certitudes you do face only in a dream. “What about us then? We can only hear each other’s voices too …”</p><p>“You may be dreaming me but I am sure I am not dreaming you.”</p><p>“You say the strangest things, you know!”</p><p>“How would I?”</p><p>Right, at least the guy was funny to hang with. Even if it wasn’t on purpose.</p><p>“Ok then, let’s assume both of us are inside this mind prison thing. Why can we communicate? It doesn’t feel like something mind captors would allow!”</p><p>“I don’t know. Maybe…”</p><p>Having grown used to Steve’s habit of taking breaks in the middle of his talking, he waits for several seconds before stepping in. Only this time, the next words never come.</p><p>“Maybe what?”</p><p>“Nothing. I don’t know. We should focus on our escape instead.”</p><p>Easier said than done! How do you escape a mind prison? About that, however, Steve has some ideas.</p><p>“We break it. There’s another spirit pushing us down there; we push it back.”</p><p>‘<em>We push it back</em>,<em>’ eh. Just like that</em>. “…And you think it will work?”</p><p>“We can try.”</p><p>He can literally hear the shrug in Steve’s answer. But he’s not wrong, what is there to do but try?</p><p>“Ok then,” he says while getting back on his legs, “Let’s have a go.”</p><p>Blow the entire room at once seems a bit ambitious, so he decides to focus his attention on something smaller. Like that wall separating their two cells. It might prove more efficient to join their efforts, but they might also end up hurting each other.</p><p>“Steve, get away from the wall. I will…” What, actually? He has no idea. “I will try…stuff.”</p><p>‘<em>We push it back.’</em> Push it. With the mind. Alright, so maybe a projection, something…something like waves?</p><p>He imagines himself collecting, gathering all the energy he can in his chest, then releasing it all at once, sending it radiate around his form and into the dark. He does it again. And again. It doesn’t seem to work.</p><p>“Steve? You felt anything?” he asks tentatively. The fact that he didn’t perceive a thing doesn’t mean someone outside his head hasn’t.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Great. Wonderful. What else could he do? </p><p>It then occurred to him that himself was a projection already. His arms, his hands, his entire body wasn’t there, all of it a creation of his mind trying to introduce some sense in this place. Thus, whatever his body might do, his mind was doing it as well. Or instead. Anyway!</p><p>What if he simply threw himself, full force, at the wall. Could he unsettle its structure? Would it <em>hurt</em>?</p><p>He didn’t feel no hunger here. Nor thirst, nor tiredness. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t feel pain, especially if he was expecting it…</p><p>Either way, he has to give it a shot.</p><p>“I’m going to try something else, ok?”</p><p>He takes a few steps back, calming his breath, and prepares to run straight at the indistinguishable panel.</p><p>Just as he is about to put on a sprint, the ground begins to tremble underneath his ‘feet’, almost taking him off balance. For ten full seconds, the cube around him is rocking back and forth, as if shaken by an impossibly giant hand. Until it stops.</p><p>“…Matt?” he hears from the other side. Steve’s voice is wary and uncertain. “Was that you?”</p><p>“No, it wasn’t.” And obviously, it wasn’t Steve either. Panic slowly begins to seep in. “I didn’t do anything.”</p><p>“Oh. You should probably…hurry up then...”</p><p>He swallows once, nods to himself as an encouragement and, once again, get ready for the run, when the shaking resumes, as sudden and as hectic than before.</p><p>Only this time, it goes on.</p><p>It intensifies.</p><p>Snapping sounds seem to come from everywhere and, had there be any light, he would have expected to witness cracks bloom and spread on any of the walls.</p><p>Then comes a voice. A voice he is certain that he knows even though it doesn’t evoke anything in particular.</p><p>And the voice is pleading, <em>demanding</em>. It repeats the same thing, over and over again. Something that resemble a first name, even before he can get a grip on it.</p><p>Dean.</p><p>Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. <em>Dean</em>.</p><p>All at once he knows. It isn’t just any first name; it is <em>his</em>.</p><p>His first reflex is to tell it, to shout it to the man sharing his fate.</p><p>“Steve,” he yells, at the top of his lungs, “Steve, it’s Dean. My name is Dean!”</p><p>“Dean,” Steve repeats, voice deeper and thoughtful, and from the tone, from the very way he pronounced those syllables, Dean gets his second, unshakeable revelation.</p><p>“We know each other!”</p><p>It is an assertion, that’s isn’t pending any validation, and yet he can’t describe the burst of heat filling his chest when he hears Steve’s response.</p><p>“Yes. Yes, we do.”</p><p>Somewhere on his right, something comes crashing to the ground. The cube has begun to fall apart. He needs to be with Steve. With ‘Steve’.</p><p>Without further thinking, he launches himself at the wall, his running speed preventing him from tripping over. He crashes into it once, twice, tree times, forgetting to ponder on the presence or absence of pain.</p><p>The cube is falling to pieces, shaking ever so violently, and he doesn’t know if it’s his continuous efforts or a timely accident that opens a breach between the cells.</p><p>He dives inside, harshly bumping into his companion as soon as he steps out. Steve must have been lashing on the wall from his own side.</p><p>They fall to the ground, limbs strangely intertwined, hearts bumping in their immaterial chests.</p><p>“Dean!” Steve repeats and, of their own accord, Dean’s arms close around his frame in a tight hug.</p><p>“I’m here!” he says, as he is pulled closer in the embrace. He <em>finally </em>is here.</p><p>Something brushes against his skin. Something soft and downy and incongruous. Reluctantly, his left hand lets go of Steve’s old coat fabric and reaches up, fingers slowly tracing the other man’s shoulder blades. Until they stop, both in awe and in shock.</p><p>“You have wings?!”</p><p>“Yes,” Steve answers, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.</p><p>And maybe it is. It matters little at the moment.</p><p>Crashing sounds come from everywhere as entire chunks of the structure collapse onto the ground. A continuous rain of debris has started falling on their heads, some merely dusting while others are twice as big as a fist. At any moment a larger fragment could come off and crush them completely.</p><p>Would they suffer? Would they die? For sure, their body are not in there, but Dean knows for a fact that minds can be broken too.</p><p>He reaches forward, swinging them from their half-sitting position, covering Steve’s frame with his own, his back exposed to the ceiling. Then there is a shiver, a flutter, and the air around him is moving, disturbed by the outstretch of feathery wings.</p><p>Dean doesn’t need his eyes to picture them, huge and shadowy, joining above their heads and enclosing them in a protective arch. The stream of debris reduces, only a handful of splinters managing to weave their way into the shield. At what cost for the angel, he cannot say. If the impacts are causing him pain, he doesn’t let it show.</p><p>He vaguely wonders how long they have, how long it will take before the falling pieces rip the feathers off, leaving the wings bare and tattered, and what he could to help.</p><p>Someone out there is calling his name again – or has it ever stopped? The shattering sound is deafening! –  and the ground suddenly gives way, sending them falling into the dark.</p><p>He can do nothing, nothing but hold on to Steve, clutching him with all he has and make sure they will not get separated.</p><p>He and Steve.</p><p>‘Steve’.</p><p><em>Cas</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, this is my first spn fic, and also the first fic I'm writing in present tense. Tell me what you think :D</p><p>"Jason" is actually a reference to Jason Bourne (because, you know, identity crisis &amp; memory loss). I also think Dean uses it as an alias in one episode... Castiel doesn't think it suits mostly because it's a two syllables word (unlike "Dean"), hence the use of "Matt" (because Matt Damon).</p><p>See you in next and final (and shorter) chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello hello again. First of all, I have to say I had problems updating this chapter, so I'm sorry if it has bothered anyone. Also super short chapter this time, sorry (again). Most of the story happens within the Djinn's "dream", and, you know, it just felt strange cutting it sooner. But at least we got some Sam this time!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He awakes.</p><p>His eyes shot open.</p><p>Next to him is Sammy, face tensed with worry. He tells him something that he doesn’t catch.</p><p>Everything is blurry and everything is distant. Until it all comes back at once.</p><p>
  <em>The warehouse. The searching. The Djinn.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cas!</em>
</p><p>Apparently, he said that last word out loud, for Sammy answers him. And, this time, he hears it.</p><p>“He is fine. Drugged, like you. But he is fine.”</p><p>“Where?” His voice comes thick, raspy, but his brother doesn’t seem to mind. Relief has clearly eased his features now. A relief that Dean isn’t close to find yet.</p><p>“Right there,” Sammy says, nodding his head to the left.</p><p>Dean turns his head – which proves to be <em>way</em> harder than it should – in the general direction his brother indicated and tries to catch a sight of the angel. The dim lightning of the place doesn’t help and his misty, unfocussed eyes can barely distinguish a human-shaped form a few feet away from him. A human-shaped form wearing a beige coat at least!</p><p>The figure seems to be seated in a chair and, Dean notices, so does he.</p><p>Tubes have been removed from his skin and an assortment of various ties and restraints have been cut open. Sammy’s work without a doubt.</p><p>He decides to get up.</p><p>“Dean!” Sam exclaims, using his right hand to push his brother back in his seat.  </p><p>“I need to go!”</p><p>Sam sighs in defeat, clearly annoyed at his brother’s stubbornness, but having accepted it as ineluctable anyhow.</p><p>“Let me help you then!” he says, placing an arm under Dean’s shoulders to help him stand.</p><p>He then sets out to support his brother as he takes one uneasy step after the other in the direction of Castiel’s chair. Although he isn’t likely to admit it, Dean is actually grateful for the assistance. His body is still slow, dazed by the Djinn’s poison, and he isn’t sure he would have managed the distance on his own.</p><p>It takes them forever to get by the angel’s side, but when they do, Dean can let go of a painfully long-held sigh. Seems like Sam had been right. Cas does indeed look like he’s going to be alright. Alright yet somewhat out of it at the moment, his eyes squinting in the light and clearly fighting for consciousness.</p><p>“Cas”, Dean practically cries out, instantly catching the attention of his angel.</p><p>“Dean,” he answers automatically, and Dean can’t help but smile at the sound of his name being pronounced in the coarse, gruffy voice he’d recognize anywhere.</p><p>He frees himself of Sam’s hold, oblivious to his own staggering legs, and ends up literally falling on top of the angel.</p><p>This time Cas’ arms are first to close around him. He can’t properly return the embrace, Cas’ body still pushed against the seat’s backrest, now by both their weights. So he reaches for his shoulders instead, fingers gripping the rough fabric and head lazily resting to the side, inches away from the crook of his neck.</p><p>They stay like this for some time, neither of them particularly eager to move, before Dean can feel the angel start to quiver lightly beneath him. His head raises at once in alarm.</p><p>“Cas,” he says, growing increasingly worried when Cas purposefully avoid his gaze. He places a gentle hand on his cheek, moving his face for their eyes to meet, and tries again. “Cas, what is it?”</p><p>“Sorry I forgot. I’m so sorry Dean…”</p><p>The confession sounds hard to make, and it is equally hard to hear. How come Cas can even think of blaming himself for such a thing?</p><p>Dean shakes his head vigorously. “You didn’t,” he states, “Not really. It was the poison’s doing and, can I remind you, I didn’t do any better! But we fought there Cas, we spent every minute fighting, even though we didn’t realise why! Don’t you think it is worth something?”</p><p>Guilt doesn’t disappear from Castiel’s eyes, but is at least balanced with a new set of emotions: resolve, relief, trust, and the fierce desire to hope for something you shouldn’t dare to. It encourages Dean to go on.</p><p>“Look, that Djinn got both of us and we both ended in that black pit. But you never let me down.” And hopefully, Dean thinks, the same can be said about him. “We broke the wall. Or we tried at least. And thanks to Sammy we’re out now.”</p><p>Seeking for support, he casts his brother a side glance. Sam, who’s still standing next to the chair, looks disproportionately annoyed that he hasn’t been mentioned earlier. The Djinn’s magic has been a strange one too, so he ought to feel a little puzzled by their conversation. He is however quick to pull up a face, and steps in with a gentle voice.</p><p>“Dean is right, Djinns’ magic is powerful. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but you shouldn’t torture yourself with it. I was lucky I managed to bring this one down.”</p><p>“See,” Dean adds with a tentative smile, “even Sammy agrees. I know you never wanted to forget. You didn’t even properly manage to. And I couldn’t forget you either.”</p><p>This at least brings Castiel to slowly nod in agreement. They both fall silent and simply stare at each other for a couple more seconds, the two of them now fully awake.</p><p>A moment passes before a loud, exasperated sight is heard coming from Sam.</p><p>“Guys,” he breaks in, “we should probably leave this place before any of that Djinn’s friends shows up to see what’s going on…”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>His brother is dumb and he’s driving him crazy.</p><p>Of course, not all the time, and not about everything. Yet, sometimes, it takes Sam all of his self-control not to scream at the top of his lungs. Now, he certainly doubts rushing Dean is likely to provide positive results. Only this time, well, this time, he really thought they would go all the way through.</p><p>They are asleep now, Dean and Castiel, resting in the back seat of the Impala. Seems like a Djinn induced slumber is not in the slightest relaxing – especially not that one. Which has the merit of giving Sam some alone time to brood.</p><p>All of it started as a classic case, although it could have degenerated easily.</p><p>Mysterious disappearances. The usual work of investigation. Then the localization of what they assumed had to be the Djinn’s lair. Dean and Cas had left to have a look and, after a few hours without news, Sam had started to get worried.</p><p>Turns out Dean and Cas fell into a trap, ingeniously set up by a rather skilled Djinn. Hopefully, they didn’t expect another hunter to show up within such a reduced amount of time and Sam managed to get the upper hand.</p><p>The Djinn’s poison worked in a strange way too. One they had never encountered before. It didn’t create one of those ideal dream you don’t want to wake up from. Instead, it emptied its victims’ head of any memory, anything that could have reminded them of themselves, or of the life they lived. Another effective way to prevent them from fighting. Not that they particularly wanted to stay; they simply had nowhere left to come back to. And should they find it in themselves to oppose their fate, they lost all their time calling for answers or confronting physical walls that weren’t even there.</p><p>Four more people were freed from that dusty old warehouse, all of which would make it out alive. Dean and Castiel had been the only ones to reach for each other in this uncanny sleeping state.</p><p>Cas said it was because of the bond they shared, and Sam had no trouble believing that.</p><p>Apparently, the experience had been pretty intense, and not in a good way. Their wakening manifested by the collapse of the entire world around them, and they couldn’t have known for sure it would leave them unscathed.</p><p>The first thing Dean had asked for was Castiel – which hasn’t been a surprise.</p><p>Then he insisted on checking on the angel himself. Again, nothing that had surprised Sam overmuch.</p><p>He had practically jumped on Cas as soon as he had made it to the chair. And the exchange they had afterwards… Sam’s hands are tensing on the wheel at the mere thought of it.</p><p>‘<em>You never wanted to forget.</em>’</p><p>‘<em>And I couldn’t forget you either</em>.’</p><p>They had been so close, so very, very close. With Dean’s hands brushing Cas’s cheek and their eyes locked into each other’s. In that moment, Sam had believed, <em>actually</em> believed, they were about to kiss.</p><p>He had left them time. Too much time probably, given the precariousness of their situation. And, of course, they did nothing of it.</p><p>Better luck next time Sam supposes, trying to cheer himself a bit.</p><p>Because behind the frustration, there’s that firm belief that this isn’t over. Because he knows that, eventually, they will come to face those feelings they share. It is bound to happen, one day or another.</p><p>In the meantime, they are alive, they are free and, whether they see it or not, they do get to stick together. This, Sam reckons, must indeed be worth something.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is it, hope you liked it :) Thank you all for reading and for the kudos!!</p><p>Also, just so you know, feedback/comments are very much welcome. Very very very much (even if you just want to spot an english mistake (because as you may have noticed (not too much I hope), I'm not a native speaker)).</p><p>And yes of course, they end up facing their feelings and then live happily ever after!!!</p>
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